


The Sound of Romance [Sherlock x Musician!Reader]

by LonelyPeony



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Music, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 17:17:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5464598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LonelyPeony/pseuds/LonelyPeony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>BBC Sherlock x Musician!Reader oneshot.<br/>Genre: romance, fluff<br/>This is the type of love that you don't have to see to believe. Just feel it.</p>
<p>"You, whom he had never met, were in complete harmony with him, matching his every beat despite his interpretive style. You, whom he had never met, completed the gaps in his concerto with your infallible skill. You didn’t need to see each other to know that your rhythms and melodies fit perfectly – that you, whom he had never met, were the only one capable of making beautiful music with him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sound of Romance [Sherlock x Musician!Reader]

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Dvorak's Romance for Violin in F minor, Op. 11.
> 
> "If music be the food of love, play on" - William Shakespeare

It is common knowledge that the (in)famous Sherlock Holmes preferred Mendelssohn to any other composer. He was the bridge between the Classical and Romantic eras, and as such, he has created works that sound similar to Mozart and works purely Romantic. Of course, aside from just merely listening, Sherlock adored playing Mendelssohn, maybe because Mendelssohn was a composing genius or maybe due to the fact that anyone can mess up while playing Mendelssohn and make it sound beautiful. Perhaps that is an added bonus to Mendelssohn’s innate genius.  
   
He hardly knew who you were, much less the idea that you simply existed in the same time and place as he. That was until he heard from the room directly above his the cacophonous tuning of a violin that obviously needed new strings. And it so happened to go on for a good five minutes in the midst of _his_ practice – more like narcissistic performance – time. Irritated at the fact that you couldn’t even tune properly, nor could you find a better time to _not_ disturb him, Sherlock conducted a one-sided battle with the unknown you, the pristine horsehair of the bow digging into his new strings that were now covered in rosin dust. At the silence of the second violin, Sherlock smirked to himself with malicious contempt, knowing that he had indeed won his not-so-silent battle.  
   
But he had not won the war.  
   
The screech of a violin was replaced with the hammering of piano keys, non-tonal chords thrown about in pleasure. No, he was _very_ wrong about this mysterious you. When he thought you would give up from being overpowered in sound and skill, it turns out that he found you to be quite competitive, especially in the annoyance department. You were beyond capable of asserting your musical dominance by pounding dissonant chords that shouted “Shut up down there!”  
   
So what did Sherlock do?  
   
He played even louder. With the skill of a five-year-old.  
   
Watson, coming back from an outing with Mary, slammed open the apartment door.  
   
“What is going on?” he demanded, motioning inexplicably to the epidemic of noise.  
   
It was very likely that you heard the slam of the door beneath your floor, for Sherlock noticed the halt of the piano.  
   
Ignoring John, Sherlock stopped playing and exclaimed in delight, “I won!”  
   
“What are you on about this time?” John droned. “You do realize that the neighbors have been complaining about, well, whatever you’ve been doing. I can hardly say you’re making music at all.”  
   
“Oh, just having a little fun with the person upstairs.” Sherlock waived it off, completely content with the result.  
   
“With [Name]?”  
   
“Is that who lives there? Never met her.”  
   
“Of course you haven’t. You absolutely refused to meet her when I went up to greet her a few months ago when she moved in.”  
   
Sherlock shrugged. He never had any plans of meeting her, especially after war, which he had to admit was a little stimulating.  
   
Watson, pulling a book out from the shelf, mentioned nonchalantly, “She’s a professional violinist, you know.”  
   
He earned a perplexed, icy stare from Sherlock.  
   
John went on, honestly not knowing whether he wanted to provoke Sherlock or not. But his idea of you and Sherlock was certainly interesting. “You’re either out or busy playing your violin so loud that you can’t hear the second one playing with you. She’s so good that even the great Sherlock Holmes can’t detect her.”  
   
“Oh shut up,” Sherlock grumbled. John sniggered in amusement. He liked where this was going. And he definitely had to tell Mary about it.  
   
The next few days were devoted to a case. A victim was found stuffed inside a tympani at Royal Albert Hall. He was not a part of the orchestra, and they discovered the murderer to be one of the stage crewmembers. It was on the follow up day that the sweet tone of a piano reached his ears, its haunting music box melody piquing his interest. A minute later a violin joined the piano, taking over as the lead. Its tenderness warmed his heart.  
   
“Who is in the hall?” he asked the manager in the middle of the police’s conversation out in the lobby.  
   
Lestrade, who was interrupted, sighed. “Really, Holmes?”  
   
The manager, a bit surprised by the random question posed by the famous detective, sputtered out, “That’s Miss [Last Name] rehearsing with the accompanist for the upcoming concert she is featured in. Of course, she will perform with the orchestra then, but she insisted on the pianist for many of the rehearsals.”  
   
A few days later, Sherlock was bored out of his mind and decided to play his violin. It had been a while since he last heard from your horrible violin and piano. He was playing what he always played: Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E minor, Op. 64. He listened for the second violin that Watson said was always hiding in the shadows of his violin all along. But there was none to be heard. A bit disappointed by this, Sherlock paused in his performance.  
   
All of a sudden a piano sounded from above, the well-known ostinato from the beginning of the concerto accompaniment resonating. It, too, paused at a certain point as if waiting for the soloist to enter. A rush of excitement overcame his being, and Sherlock began to play once more, this time with the accompanist from the heaven above. You, whom he had never met, were in complete harmony with him, matching his every beat despite his interpretive style. You, whom he had never met, completed the gaps in his concerto with your infallible skill. You didn’t need to see each other to know that your rhythms and melodies fit perfectly – that you, whom he had never met, were the only one capable of making beautiful music with him.  
   
It became somewhat of a tradition, a routine for the two of you. Every time Sherlock would take out his violin, you would be there waiting to accompany him. And it got to the point where Sherlock would excuse himself from tea with John and Mary, in a hurry to rehearse with the unknown you before sundown. You were not only his accompanist. The relationship developed into one of a duet between violin and piano or two violins, even rotating between first and second violin. John and Mary could only smile sweetly at the Sherlock who seemed like their grade school child with the impulse to text his crush immediately after receiving one.  
   
Sometimes he wouldn’t even play at all. He would just listen as you practiced performing your piece – the same exact one he had heard at Royal Albert Hall. And he knew that it was you who was there that day, rehearsing with the pianist. Without seeing you, he could tell what emotion you were wearing on your face. Some days it was sad, others it was happy. And whatever emotion he detected from your performance was what he felt for the remainder of the day, for he could not get you out of his thoughts.  
   
John and Mary surprised Sherlock with tickets for your long awaited concert at Royal Albert Hall. He dressed his best and sat on the orchestra level in the center, having a wonderful view of the entire stage yet close enough to be able to see your face and fingers.  
   
The lights dimmed, Sherlock’s anticipation growing stronger by the second. A roar of applause echoed throughout the hall as you made your way to the center of the stage, bowing elegantly in your beautiful deep red gown. You were not stunningly gorgeous, nor were you hideous in the slightest. You were at most above average to the typical male. But Sherlock is no typical male. Far from it.  
   
The orchestra proceeded with the music box melody that made his heart long for something – _someone_. It was the Dvorak Romance for Violin in F minor, Op. 11. It was the one you had played on sad days and happy days. It was the one that made him fall in love with you, whom he had not – until this moment – seen in his entire life. But you were there with him all along, playing with him from above. Sherlock, immersed in your performance closed his eyes for a moment, trying to detect the emotion of the day. It was not sadness, yet it was not wrongfully happy either. There was that tenderness he felt the day he heard you rehearse in the hall, there was that warmth and intense calmness.  
   
In your music, he heard pure love. It was a love that went beyond one’s love for music. It was a love for _someone_.  
   
At the end of your performance, the hall erupted in applause. Sherlock was the first to stand during the applause. He thought you to be the most beautiful woman in the world. Mendelssohn didn’t matter anymore to him nearly as much as you did. It didn’t matter what composer you performed; all that mattered was that _you_ were the one performing. And it was bound to be beautiful.  
   
You had finally gotten back to your apartment after the heated craze of the concert. Completely worn out but mentally aroused with the thought of the man from below coming to your concert. You never knew who was playing those duets and solos with you until that night when he was the first to stand in your presence. And you figured that he, whose face had been in the news, was the great Sherlock Holmes.  
   
At that moment, there was a knock on your door. Still dressed in your gown, you hesitantly opened the door, revealing a man with dark hair and piercing blue eyes that were cold yet full of love for the woman who was reflected in his eyes. He seemed out of breath, carrying a bouquet of roses as red as your dress. You lovingly smiled at the sight of him, gathering the bouquet in your arms.  
   
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Holmes, though it seems like we’ve known each other for a very long time.”  
   
It was a true love of two people who had never once seen each other but were brought together by the sound of romance.


End file.
